This Masquerade
by SadArticle
Summary: A little lighthearted fun! Set in May 1793, before 'The Elusive Pimpernel', Marguerite and Suzanne are guests of the Prince at a masquerade ball. Please review!
1. Paper faces on parade

**This Masquerade**

_**With thanks to Elyse, Kate, Liz and Zebulon, for their varied and objective beta-reading skills!**_

The bustling crowd nearest the south entrance turned as one towards the door, detecting the arrival of someone of importance: no matter who, for their attention was never held for long.

"It is Lady Blakeney and Lady Ffoulkes," a princess announced to the obligatory shepherdess amongst the masked faces.

"Unattended, once again," came a dry observation.

"It is no wonder," a flower seller chimed in, shifting her basket of posies from one arm to the other. "I imagine their lords have already grown quite tired of play-acting!"

"But doesn't Lady Blakeney look beautiful?"

This contrary statement was spoken by a young gallant, whose costume had already caused much hilarity and was felt sure to be mentioned in the society papers, as he had donned the livery of a recently disgraced earl. Flower seller, shepherdess and princess rolled their eyes in his direction, and then pointedly looked away again.

"She carries herself well, to be sure," one of the privileged females admitted, "but a domino is terribly tedious – I should have thought she might have put a little more effort into it."

"And red doesn't really go with her hair, does it, Sophia?"

"I fear the hue is probably meant to be _scarlet_," the flower seller sneered, "as I hear her crowd is closely linked to the League of the Pimpernel."

"Oh, pish!" Sophia dismissed the rumour with a toss of her bejewelled head: "Sir Percy in the same _breath_ as the Pimpernel, let alone the same crowd – why, it's laughable!"

"I said _Lady_ Blakeney's crowd," the other fired back; " 'tis hardly the same thing, for I doubt Sir Percy would recognise his wife _without_ the mask and cloak."

The three ladies crowed behind politely raised hands, until they realised that the butt of their humour was weaving ever closer through the throng.

"Oh, how long 'til the Supper Rooms are opened?" Sophia opined rather loudly, sweeping her glittering skirts in the opposite direction. "Lord Hastings, please do accompany us to a refreshment table."

Hastings, with an apologetic glance over his shoulder, grudgingly raised his arm to take the hand of his father's goddaughter. He managed to catch Marguerite's teasing smile and Suzanne's playful shooing gesture before turning to look where he was being hastily piloted.

"Poor Lord Hastings," Marguerite whispered into her friend's ear, "I fear he's rather intimidated by royalty."

"_Quand on parle du loup_," Suzanne murmured, tapping the arm linked through her own to direct her friend's attention to a figure approaching through the crowd.

The Prince of Wales, dressed rather predictably as the Sun King, was steering his basic entourage towards them, causing the masked guests around to him to bend like corn stalks in a breeze. He stopped short before Marguerite, just that little bit too close, as was his wont.

"I know _you_," he drawled the traditional greeting of a _masque_; "I should know those eyes anywhere, as they haunt my very dreams."

Marguerite took a slow, imperceptible breath as if to brace herself, and then rose from her low curtsy. "And I you, sir," she returned in the same fashion, although it was useless to even pretend that the Prince's identity could ever be disguised.

"_I_ haunt _your _dreams?" he whispered with theatrical awe, leaning in close towards her ear to avoid anybody overhearing.

Marguerite gave a practiced smile, but said nothing.

"And Lady Ffoulkes upon your arm!" he announced, reaching for Suzanne's extended hand. "But how delightful! I shall forgive the absence of your lords and masters, as their loss is certainly my gain!" The gentlemen of his suite, and a handful of people about them, laughed politely at his comic display of delight.

Marguerite, who knew that he would take her arm, released her hold on Suzanne's elbow. The Prince, however, took a step backwards, his hasty movement rippling amongst his attendants: he was appraising her.

"Mmm," he mumbled through pursed lips, his arms crossed and a finger held to his mouth. "A red – no! – a _scarlet _domino! How devilish of you!" he beamed. "And how it suits you!"

Marguerite dipped in a gentle curtsy. "Your Highness is too kind."

"Come, let's find some refreshment," he commanded, raising her gloved hand to his lips before snaking her arm through his.

Marguerite shot a meaningful glance at Suzanne, as if to say, _I think he means 'More refreshment'!_ Suzanne, biting down on the inside of her mouth, followed on a little behind her friend.

"Do you see what I mean about scarlet being her colour?" Sophia hissed to her now somewhat unwilling audience, as the Prince's refreshed retinue swept past. Hastings sighed into his glass of port before quickly gulping down the contents. "No discreet lover for her, she flirts with the Prince!"

"Madame!" Lord Hastings barked, a little louder and harsher than he had intended. Sophia's green eyes flew wide open at his tone. He took a breath before adding in a hoarse whisper: "Please try to act with the dignity befitting your own role, and not the common behaviour of Lady Calverley's costume!"

Her eyes shot to the flower seller. "I - I was only giving voice to what everyone must think," she stammered.

"Then pray keep silent for a moment, and _let _people think," he snapped back, huffing another sigh. Letting the moment for an instant apology and retraction of his words slip by, Hastings, swilling the dregs in the bottom of his glass, mumbled something about craving the ladies' pardon before disappearing into the crowd.

"Oh dear!" Lady Calverley said airily. "Another falls prey to the scarlet domino."

"Do hush!" Sophia hissed, staring after the retreating figure of the masked footman as he followed in the wake of the Prince.


	2. There's Another Mask Behind You!

When the Supper Rooms finally opened an hour later, it had become quite impossible to navigate the crowded Rotunda without steeping on toes or risking one's dignity in the hands of strangers; the air was heavy and oppressive, a cauldron of odours given off by sweating bodies, liquor, food and candle smoke, and everyone seemed to have to speak twice as loud to be heard by their neighbour.

"I say it's the women who started it all," a member of the Carlton House set drawled from somewhere behind her. Marguerite turned her head in the direction of the heavy, slurred tones, but the speaker was sat beyond the illumination of the candle lamp. "Those damned _coteries_ over there in Paris – women getting above their rightful … position ..!" He snorted, amused by the crude pun, and the Prince laughed along with him.

Tapping her mask on the rail beside her, Marguerite returned her attention to the crowd below. Down there, amongst the laughter and the spontaneous conversation, was where she would have preferred to be, rather than forced to listen to the ridiculous views of a handful of drunken peers. Even the Prince, who usually chaperoned her in Percy's absence, had seemingly forgotten that she existed. Marguerite glanced at Suzanne, who was sat opposite her at the other end of the balcony, listlessly opening and closing her fan; they should not have come, she decided. Had it not been for the Prince's invitation …

As Marguerite lazily scanned the faces beneath her box, her heart gave a sudden flutter and she nearly swooned, dropping her mask over the edge of the box. Was she imagining things? Stood beside one of the pillars in the centre of the room was a tall man, dressed in the short boxy jacket and striped trousers of the French _sans culottes_, his face hidden behind a mask of blue, white and red stripes. He was leaning casually against the supports behind him, his hands buried in his trouser pockets – a posture fondly familiar to Marguerite. And he seemed to be looking directly at her, although she could not see his eyes behind the mask from where she was sitting.

"Margot, what is wrong?" Suzanne whispered, leaning forwards to touch her friend's knee.

"Suzanne, by the fireplace, that man –" she babbled, pointing out over the balcony. "Am I mad?"

"Which man, _chérie_?"

"That –"

As she had vaguely expected, the _citoyen_ was gone when she tried to point him out. Could it have been? Wouldn't he have come to her, if he was in England? She had heard that the _sans culottes_ dress of the French republic was now a popular costume at masques: perhaps her fears for Percy had induced her to link the disguise to her husband. Had there been anyone there at all?

"Never mind," Marguerite sighed, sinking back against the plush velvet of her chair. She gave a start, recalling that her mask had slipped from her hand, but then dismissively flapped a hand at the balcony; she wasn't in the mood for pretending, anyway.

The men behind her were now discussing the war between Britain and France, declared (almost mutually) two months ago, having obviously agreed that the Paris _salons_ run by women such as Madame Roland had caused the whole Revolution to begin with. Marguerite, whose mind had not been on the festivities all evening, decided that she needed to be alone, if that was possible.

Finally able to escape unheeded from the Prince's attentions, Marguerite slipped quietly out of the box; friendly eyes followed her progress, as she skirted around chairs and bowed her head underneath the velvet curtain raised as if by magic as she approached the opening to the public space beyond.

"Margot!" Suzanne's timid voice sounded behind her. Not five steps from the Prince's box, Marguerite turned back. "Where are you going, chérie?"

"I cannot breathe, the air is stifling," she rushed, fanning herself for effect. "I shall take a walk outside for a moment."

"I will come with you," Suzanne told her, stepping down into the passageway.

"No, no!" Marguerite cried, feeling tired and short-tempered. "I shan't be gone long. You must stay and amuse the Prince, after all!" she added gaily, with a small laugh.

"But Margot, _alone_?"

Marguerite, her body already angled to continue down the corridor, patted her friend's nervously clasped hands. "You shan't even have time to miss me, and Lord Hastings will sit with you," she said softly, gathering up the hem of her cloak and skirts.

Not frightened or embarrassed in the least, only glad to have time with her thoughts, Marguerite walked quickly down to the main floor. As she passed the balconies on the upper tier, she glanced at the many lights – crystal chandeliers and gold sconces for illumination, coloured lanterns for effect – and the dizzying mass of people in their brightly decorated costumes below; searching, perhaps, for a red liberty cap, head and shoulders above the crowd. Laughter and the drone of conversation were nearly drowning out the glorious sounds of the Duke of Gloucester's band, playing in their raised platform for the more select company, and there was no room to hold dances, but the energy and the jollity appealed to Marguerite. How she would love it all, and enjoy herself to the full – if only Percy could really be here with her, she thought sadly.

Mortal fear was reaching a crescendo in the blood-stained land she had once been proud to call her home, as the Convention purged itself of all moderation. The quest for liberty and equality had been swallowed up by the greed and ambition of men who had never sought to empower the masses, only to raise themselves still further and to strike down any who opposed them, now or in the past. And it was no longer only the wealthy and titled who were being punished, but that vague and fluctuating body of 'rebel' citizens: challenging speech, different ideas, old beliefs, new fears – anything and nothing could now send men and women to the open arms of _Madame la guillotine_.

And he was there, in the middle of it all, risking his life for others.

Marguerite shuddered, despite the sultry air, and pulled her satin cloak close around herself. She wound her way through the crowd, alternately carried along and held up, only able to point herself in the general direction of the nearest wide arch into the gardens. Arms jostled, bodies twisted her gown and pulled at her domino, and she finally had to raise up onto her toes to minimise accidental crushes from feet she couldn't see. Tears pricking at her dry eyes, she pressed instinctively forward, desperate to find a quiet corner.

"Pardon!" She heard the voice at the same time as she felt something drag on the hem of her gown, the accident and the apology happening together: slipping backwards on her small heels, her vision blurring, voices around her suddenly louder, she tried to put her hands out but found her arms fast inside her cloak. Preparing herself for humiliation even in the half-second it took to register that she was falling, Marguerite stumbled, fought to free an arm and rescue even a scrap of dignity – only to feel her shrouded elbows supported from beneath by two strong hands. Her knees buckled, but somebody behind her absorbed the momentum of her descent and raised her back onto her feet, neatly and firmly.

"Careful there," he added, and Marguerite spun round so quickly that she nearly slipped back down. "And don't let me find you swooning against strange men again!"

"P –!" she gasped, but her rescuer quickly held up a finger in a commanding gesture of silence. He smiled, his lips curling beneath his tricolour mask.

"No names, this is a masquerade," he told her. "Let's go outside."


	3. Burning glances, turning heads

"Oh, but where are you going?"

Hastings broke from scanning the sea of heads before him to turn to Sophia, who had trailed his steps all the way down from the balconies. She was now close behind him, readjusting her elaborate tiara.

"You can't just abandon me like that!" she cried, stamping her small foot.

"You would have been safer and much more comfortable had you remained in the box," he told her.

"_Alone_?"

Hastings rolled his eyes, then craned his neck to search the crowd again.

"Who are you looking for?"

"I'm just … trying to find …" he stammered, too focused to think up a suitable excuse.

"Well, there she is!" Sophia cried, close to his shoulder. He instinctively followed the direction of her wagging finger, but his irritation at being read like an open book was jarred by the scene that finally fixed his attention. "But who is _that_?" Sophia divined his thoughts.

A broad back, clad in a snug-fitting _carmagnole_ and rough linen shirt, the _sans culottes_ uniform uncomfortably familiar to Hastings, was bent over Marguerite's curved form, her vivid domino flapping back over the stranger's legs. He had her arms gripped tightly in his hands, and his scruffy brown head, topped with a dirty red _Phrygian_ cap, was pressed close to her dark golden curls.

"What is he doing?" Sophia's voice, devoid of concern, twittered distantly beside Hastings, whose hearing was suddenly blanketed by the roar of blood rushing to his head. Some lout, dressed in the garb of the French mob, was manhandling the wife of his friend and chief! As he made to charge forward, Sophia coiled an arm about his elbow with surprising strength. "Wait!" she hissed.

Hastings spun round on the heel of his boot to face her, roughly shrugging free of her grasp. "For heaven's sake, Madame, your tenacity is not an admirable quality!"

"And your _dedication_ to Lady Blakeney is purely chivalrous, I suppose?"

"You know nothing of the circumstances," he grumbled, glowering into her smirking green eyes, "Sir Percy is my friend."

"How loyal of you," she retorted.

He itched to slap her, but realised that she was distracting him from going to Lady Blakeney. Mouthing a choice oath, Hastings pushed away from Sophia and ploughed ahead through the mingling bodies. Some six strides forward, however, he realised that he had lost sight of Marguerite and the ungainly stranger. Stopping short, he quickly searched the faces around him, before deciding that she must have been taken outside. Roughly pushing people aside, Hastings ran for the west arch.


	4. Fool any friend who ever knew you

"I saw you earlier," Marguerite said, her body tingling as she walked beside Percy, their arms close enough to touch but not linked: only she knew who he was, and it would not do to set tongues wagging. "From the balconies."

"I saw you from the second you entered with Lady Ffoulkes," he countered. "And I followed you when I saw you leaving the Prince's box."

"Did you stand on my gown on purpose, then?"

"Would that sound more romantic than misjudging your step from too close behind?" he laughed. Oh, how she loved that sound!

They were strolling along one of the gravelled walks, and Marguerite saw only the moonlight through the tall elms, heard only the strains of music from the gardens; they were far from alone, but she remained oblivious to the drunken young bucks, the courting couples, and the chattering female cliques, as husband and wife talked lightly and drifted closer. His voice, deep and soft, came to her ears as if from a dream, and she barely heard what he said as she listened to the musical rise and fall of his words.

"Is Sir Andrew home as well?" she asked.

"As soon as the _Daydream_ can return," he told her, enjoying the way her satin domino was stirring against his hand. "You can tell Suzanne, when you go back inside."

"Oh, but Percy -!"

"What, leave the poor girl to the mercies of the Carlton House set?" he laughed, turning to face her.

A radiance of moonlight danced about the wealth of her curls, mounted with a miniature tricorne hat, that reached just below Percy's chin; the warm colours of her beautiful hair and bright domino were muted in the shadows of the walk, but her complexion was bathed in a pearly glow, and her eyes sparkled with emotion. Forgetting everything but their love, and that this was the first time he had seen her in weeks, Percy tenderly caressed his wife's face, drawing her into his embrace.

"Lady Blakeney!" Lord Hastings came thundering down the walk, knocking people aside and leaving a chorus of angry oaths in his wake. "Lady -!" He pulled up short before them both, staring wild-eyed at Percy.

"It is she," Percy quipped, withdrawing his touch and leaving Marguerite breathless with anticipation. "Lord Myddelton's footman, _bravo_," he added, commenting on Hasting's disguise with his usual flippancy.

"Forgive me!" Hastings gasped. "I saw – I thought –"

"He thought you were either a French spy or the Pimpernel," Sophia's smooth voice cut in from behind, "come to whisk Lady Blakeney across the Channel."

"Your gallantry is appreciated, my good man," Percy smiled at his friend, "but it is neither, as you now see." He turned to Sophia, "Milady."

As she inclined her head in acknowledgment, Hastings noted the satisfied smirk teasing at her lips. "Sir Percy," she purred, "Lady Blakeney."

"We shall leave you to the relative peace of the gardens," Hastings cleared his throat, taking up Sophia's arm. "Do pardon my intrusion."

He was keen to learn from his friend all that had happened in France since his own departure, but understood that this was far from the right time and place.

"Such a marvellously topical costume, Sir Percy!" Sophia called, as Hastings steered her back along the path. "But why the subdued entrance?"

"I was looking for the Pimpernel myself!" Percy replied. "Wouldn't do for a Frenchie to advertise his presence, now, would it?"

As Sophia's throaty laughter faded into the distance, Marguerite turned to look up at her husband. "Not even to another 'Frenchie'?" she teased.

"La, m'dear," he said softly, slipping his arms beneath her domino to pull her in towards him, "I knew _you_ would find me out."

"I've missed you terribly, Percy," Marguerite sighed, pressing her cheek to the rough material of his shirt as he held her close. "It is such a trial to release you after all I have had to do to win back your love."

Her words, filtering slowly into Percy's consciousness as he breathed in the warm perfume of her hair, gripped at his heart. "Margot, my beloved," he spoke quietly, tilting her face up to his so that their eyes could meet, "surely you understand that you have always had my love?"

"I thought I knew it," she answered, reaching up to sweep the cap and wig from his head, "but then I didn't know who to love in return – Sir Percy Blakeney or the Scarlet Pimpernel."

She had all but mouthed the name, and yet Percy glanced about them, searching the shadows for the minions of a small, spare figure darkly dressed.

"Who are you?" she asked him, lifting the tricolour mask from his face.

He frowned slightly, the night air caressing his damp forehead, as his field of vision returned to normal, and then his heavy lids fell to cover the grey depths of his eyes; Marguerite's blue gaze held on.

Not knowing how to tell her that the Pimpernel, a name taken from the scarlet cinquefoils on his family coat of arms, was just as much a part of him as the flippant courtier or the wealthy landowner, Percy closed his eyes and roughly pressed his lips to hers; she submitted, starved of his touch for so long, and yet he could almost taste the unanswered question as he savoured her kiss.

"Your servant, Madame," he breathed, as they broke free of each other. "And a man very much in love with a certain scarlet domino."

Marguerite forced a smile and a sigh of laughter, trying to recapture the sudden elation that her doubts had managed to steal from her: what did it matter how he came to her, so long as he returned? There was nothing she could say that would keep him by her side, as she had once hoped, sailing home from Calais not so long ago. The 'shadowy king of her heart' was no longer a secret, but she found herself almost resenting his claim upon her emotions: their love had proved a poor match against the passion for adventure in his noble soul, and yet Marguerite admired him all the more for this, would have thought him weak for giving in. It was this bitter knowledge, that what she had gained in finding her hero in her husband might one day cost her everything, which weighted her smile when she only wanted to be happy, and made her throbbing heart ache in her breast.

"It is the colour of a brave and romantic English hero," Marguerite announced, slipping into the lofty wit of her old Paris _salon _to mask her torment, "and I am proud to honour his name."

"The honour is mine, my lady," Percy whispered, producing a familiar red eye mask from inside his jacket. "Shall we return?"


End file.
